


A Box of Masks and Mistakes

by orphan_account



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Mentions of Anxiety, Mild Sensory Overload, Mild descriptions of blood, Negative Talk, Self-Doubt, mild panic attack, suppressing feelings, yelling/shouting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 09:01:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15637494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He didn’t say anything. He hoped he would figure it out on his own. But working himself out was a lot harder than he thought it would be.OrThe forming of Anxiety and the forming of Virgil.(The life of Virgil from his forming to present day, based on my headcanons.)





	A Box of Masks and Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fictional piece I have ever posted for Sanders Sides! You may find that this, unfortunately, jumps around quite a bit. I tried to smooth out the transitions, but the pacing still might not be great. There's also a lot of contradicting thoughts in this, but it's there for a reason. I hope you enjoy this anyway and please let me know if you would be interested in reading any more of my work. 
> 
> Kudos and Comments are greatly appreciated!

He was formed in darkness.

 

It was cold. Shadows crept from an invisible caliginosity, twisting and shrivelling, their forms growing and shrinking. He blinked. He looked around and stood to his feet, only needing to steady himself for a moment.

The room formed when he took his first step. It was still dark, but it felt like a warm, comforting sort of darkness. The furniture appeared, rising from a smoke-like mist. A bed, a wardrobe, a drawer, a bedside table, a desk and a chair emerged from the ground. The wood appeared to be dusted with a purple tint, the wood grains holding a flicker of colour. He spun around in childlike awe as more items appeared - a lamp, bent at the neck, sat on his desk, pens and books were sprawled across the table and shelves lined the walls, bare and empty. A small glow, as if it were afraid to be there, emanated from the edges of the room, before it vanished. He stopped turning as the room became completely silent.

He felt his feet sink into the floor.

A force pushed into his stomach, squeezing against his organs, forcing a large gasp to travel through his mouth. He hunched over, arms tightly snaking round his middle, but the pain dissipated when he looked up. Slowly lifting his head, he looked down a large corridor. It was incomplete, blurred and undefined at the edges, an unnecessary heat haze distorting the walls. For a brief moment all he could hear was his tentative footsteps and a distant shuffling. He kept walking, the floor seemingly forming every step he took. The shuffling became louder and for a transient moment, he was blinded by darkness.

He was inside a house. He swore he recognised it, but realistically he couldn’t have. He wandered through the building, his fingers lightly tracing the bumps and crevices in the walls. When he reached a small opening in the corridor he paused. A group of shadows flickered in the corner of the room. Inhaling firmly, he walked defensively over to them.

He greeted the other people. At first, he was weary, a small spike of suspicion and _something else_ filled his chest, but he ignored it. After the initial moment of awkward tension, he began talking to them. Well, they talked to him and he listened, nodding stiffly and making non-committal sounds when they asked him questions. Soon, he found himself opening up, though his words were limited and quiet.

The conversation was cut short, however.

Foreign knowledge suddenly flooded his head; a wave of thick dizziness consumed his mind. But, it felt familiar, as if the information should’ve been there the moment he opened his eyes. He endeavoured to keep his breathing steady; tried to remind himself that all _this_ was supposed to be happening. It wasn’t working. In an attempt to escape, he stood up shakily and excused himself.

After he'd sunk down, he appeared unsteadily in his room. He fell to his knees and breathed deeply as he felt himself remembering things that he'd never experienced. He imagined a young boy, growing up surrounded by his family. He imagined the sun and how it shone through curtain-covered windows. He learnt about Thomas and his life. He learnt about the Sides and how it was their job to guide and protect him. The information spun but slotted perfectly into place, as if he'd known it all along. Pushing himself into a sitting position, his back resting against the bed, he breathed out deeply. He filtered through his mind carefully, processing this new data. He stopped when a word came to mind. _Protect._ Languidly, his eyes shut . And, with that, he felt his chest fill with something he could only describe as a sense of purpose.

 

\---

 

He grew up as Thomas did. He never physically visited Thomas, as he heard that that was only something the Main Sides did, though he was unaware of who they were. He didn't mind, really - he much preferred to keep to himself anyway. The Other Sides didn't really talk to him much either and he appreciated that. Often, he helped Thomas with some decision-making, but only from the subconscious - he wanted to keep his distance.

On more than one frequent occurrence, he heard the Others talking about Logic and Morality and Creativity and, honestly, he was so confused. What were they talking about? For a while, he didn't say anything, hoping he'd figure it out on his own, but eventually built up the courage to ask. When he had softly asked, ducking his head below his hair, shrinking his body further into his hoodie, he was met with a roaring silence. Then, they had laughed condescendingly, their bodies casting a large shadow over his, and explained that they were the Main Sides, as if it was obvious.

His face twisted slightly in confusion.

The Sides had… Names?

A chorus of giggles and laughter flooded his ears, but he remained grounded. His grip tightened around his sleeves. He was about to speak when he was interrupted. _“Not names. Traits, dummy.”_ He shrunk in on himself and sunk down, needing to escape the noise.

 

 

He pondered for a long time.

 

Were you--were you just supposed to know your trait? He had always just been...him. He didn’t recall ever feeling like he knew exactly who he was, only that he was here to protect Thomas. He didn't… understand. He didn't know what trait he was…

He just didn't understand.

For what felt like hours, he fiddled with the loose threads on his hoodie’s sleeves trying to work out _who he was._

His thoughts were abruptly cut off when Thomas fell asleep and the world went dark.

 

\---

 

From then on, he felt out of place, awkward. He decided to isolate himself more so than usual. He spent longer in his room, writing silly, unimportant messages in his notebook, rearranging items that didn't need rearranging, adding new posters of cartoons that Thomas was recently enjoying to the walls, but mostly anything that wasn't thinking about traits. It was for the best anyway. It was fine.

 

Then, Thomas grew more adventurous and dared to do more dangerous things. He overheard the Other Sides talking about how Creativity was coming up with new ideas. He froze. It felt as if someone had grabbed him roughly by his heart, pulling it from his ribcage. He could hardly breathe. He turned to them and heard himself asking what was going on. They explained that Creativity was being ridiculous again, but it didn't matter because, even if Thomas or anyone else got hurt, he would be fine and people would feel sorry for him and he would receive attention and he would look brave and cool and it was fine, it was fi-

 

Until it wasn't.

 

He had to stop this.

He tried explaining to them that hurting people was wrong but they shut him down with a _“Who cares?”_ He told them Thomas should get attention only for good things but they pushed him aside saying _“Ugh, what do you know?”_ He told them that this was lying and lying was wrong but one of them - dressed in a yellow cape tied around his neck - glared at him snarling, _“It doesn't matter if he lies - people will notice him - that’s the important thing.”_ He kept saying that this wasn't a good idea, repeating his fears with a weak, broken voice, but they refused to listen. He felt tears fill his eyes - oh gosh, people were going to find out Thomas lied and tell him off and be angry with him and--and-

 

He kept his mouth shut and sunk down to his room, the laughter of the Others filling his ears. His room was cold and bright, the light suffocating him. It filled his eyes with a blinding static, a sudden and sharp ringing swimming around his ears. He rolled onto his side, curling his legs into his chest and tried to hold everything in. Eventually the room came back into focus and he was left with a strong buzzing in his heart.

 

Thomas fell out with his best friend that day.

 

\---

 

The next time the Other Sides considered something like that he cried again, tears forming almost immediately, trying to explain that it was a bad idea, reminding them about _what happened last time,_ but they refused to listen yet again.

 

And again.

And again.

And again again again ag-

 

One day he snapped.

His fear turned to anger. His trembling hands turned to fists. His small, hunched stature turned to an intimidating, towering adumbration. And he yelled. A deep, threatening grit consumed his voice and his eyes lit up with an evil glint. He yelled and told them Thomas shouldn't go through with this. And, to his partial surprise, they listened. It worked.

And it kept working. They stopped laughing. They stopped pushing him aside. They stopped treating him like a child. He controlled the room. The air sank and felt heavy when he spoke. It consumed their power and he absorbed it.

And, soon, that power began to consume him.

 

He started to lose grip on himself. He couldn't recognise his voice anymore. He was always in a bad mood. He draped himself in black clothing; he knew that a dark persona was an easy way to get someone's guard up. He heard himself sneering at the others, making rude and sarcastic remarks. Sometimes he felt bad, but most of the time he didn't. And despite all that, he continued to convince himself that this _was fine._ It didn't matter if he scared people, they listened to him, he _protected_ Thomas and _he_ didn't feel scared anymore... It didn't matter if he was _Anxiety._ It didn't.

As he grew, he felt more and more of himself slip away and his dark persona began to feel like less of a mask and more natural. He met the Main Sides - Logic rolled his eyes at him, concluding that this was just another irrational Side. Morality feared him but, honestly, who _didn't?_

And Creativity.

Creativity despised him. Their first encounter was terrible. Creativity stalked up to him, tension lining his body. As he came closer, Anxiety noticed the band of tears resting against his eyes. Creativity raised his head higher, his lips shaking with anger. He bawled, a stinging vibration ripping from his throat. Creativity vociferated, almost incoherently hollering, “ _It's your fault Thomas gets scared of big ideas! It's your fault he doesn't listen to me! It's your fault that he doesn't go out anymore! It's your fault, your fault, your fault! I hate you!”._

Some part of Anxiety wanted to let that hurt him, he wanted to break down and scream that this wasn't what he wanted, that he just wanted people to listen too, that he just wanted to help. _Wanted to protect._ But, he didn't. He glared at Creativity and sunk out.

 

He enjoyed being the villain. He enjoyed feeling powerful. It made him forget that he was scared, reminded him of the strength he had. It made people listen. It made him feel better. It was fine. _It was fine._

  


When Anxiety was introduced to Thomas in a video, he played his role fittingly. But, something had changed. He acted with a dark edge and scary intentions, but… Thomas didn't listen. It didn't work. Suddenly everything he'd worked towards, _to get people listen_ , just _fell apart._ After the video, he sunk out and sat on the floor of his room. He felt… Conflicted. One part of him wanted to cry and tell himself to stop doing this - _it was hurting people -_ but he forced it down, suppressing the feeling. This was the only way, the only way. He was Anxiety. This was what he did.

But, no matter how hard he tried, the mask still slipped. A small speck of the scared, small trait he used to be trickled through the dam he'd made to hide behind.

 _I wasn't hiding,_ he tried to convince himself, _fear is a weakness, idiot._

But, he didn't like being the villain anymore, he wanted it to stop.

_But you're in too deep to turn back now._

He was hurting people _._

_“Who cares?”, remember?_

He didn't want this anymore. He wasn't himself anymore.

_This is who you are. You are a villain, you always will be. You'll never be accepted as one of them, so why even try anyway?_

 

He stared at himself in the mirror, his makeup smudging slightly. A trembling hand reached up to his bloodshot eyes and a heavy sigh passed through his lips. This wasn't who he was, but _it was everything he forced himself to be._ He could hardly recognise himself, he was tired, he was mean and cruel and _hurt people_ \- this wasn't right.

_It was fine._

No, it wasn't. He didn't want to be the bad guy, but after every rude remark that slipped through his mouth, every time he intimidated the others, every sarcastic grimace that settled on his face, every single time he was _scary_ ...Well, _he'd already decided his destined role._

 

He took a step back from the mirror and looked up one last time. Words echoed through his head, crashing through rational thought, tearing through the memories of when he felt even just a little accepted.

_Get out of here, Anxiety!_

_But I'm no defeatist._

_Ugh, I do not like you._

_I'll prove you wrong._

_Now, Anxiety, if you don't want to participate, you can just sit this one out._

_Yeah, we already know your point of view, Anxiety._

_It's you Anxiety, isn't it? You're the one causing him to worry!_

_Anxiety’s the antagonist!_

 

_Antagonist._

 

_Antagonist._

 

~~_I’m not always the bad guy._ ~~

 

He turned around and sunk further into his corner of the Mindscape.

 

\---

 

Nonexistent vomit rose up through his throat. He swallowed, burying everything inside. He was staring at the mirror again. A scared, wavering pair of dark brown eyes burned through him, partially hidden behind his hair. His lip trembled slightly so he clenched his teeth, securing his jaw in place, gripping the counter below him with an intense strength.

Then.

Everything relaxed.

A force knocked against him and his whole body became limp - the tension he'd been holding for years fell away, exhausted eyes finally blinked to a close, the pressure on his head like a string pulling upwards was cut loose and his chest filled with something he'd only ever felt once before.

 

_It could only be described as a sense of purpose._

 

They had come for him. They'd wanted him. They'd fought through their worst fears, allowed the shadows to gnaw at their insecurities and broke the darkness. For him. Because they thought he made them _better_.

Even after everything he'd said, how he had dismissed their feelings, discarded their ideas, broken them down until they were dust, they still went through all that _for him_.

He didn't want to believe it at first because they were _right._ Through the years of misunderstandings and confusing piles of thoughts and memories, he'd still been the bad guy and he wasn't _supposed to feel wanted._ He was still the villain. He'd stepped out because, realistically, he couldn't help. When he wanted to, it became a mess at his tongue as if someone was forcibly holding it back and when he didn't, he seemed to do it by accident. Trying to figure himself out was _exhausting._ Yet, they stood around him, holding their hands out, a beacon of hope and light that he'd never dared to even think of. They'd showed him all the things about himself that even he didn't understand - things that he wanted to be, things that made him who he was. They'd torn off the mask that was shattered on his face, the porcelain piecing his skin and poisoning his blood. They'd reminded him that this--this bad guy persona was nothing more than an invisible shield to _protect himself from being scared_.

 

He didn't think someone could understand him more than himself.

 

They showed him how figuring himself out didn't have to be a chore - it could be an adventure. His perspective changed for a brief moment then and he realised that to save himself, he had to save them too. And he did. He, for once, stopped being the bad guy and _saved them._ He _protected them_ just like he had always wanted to. When he felt himself sink down into the depths, a small but sudden, brief, fleeting yet _present_ feeling washed over him. It wasn't quite relief, but it resembled an impression of safety. He remembered watching their faces, the anxiety and fear melting away form each of them as they rose up.

 

He smiled in the mirror, a strange, unfamiliar look settling there, but it wasn't _bad._ He remembered telling them who he was. He remembered the tight pinching in his chest again, but pushed through. He remembered tearing the last shards of the mask from his face and feeling free. It was a horrible process to feel liberated but after the initial reactions, it felt lighter and more welcoming.

His eyes bore into his own reflection, determination painting his expression.

 

He wasn't just Anxiety. He was Virgil.

 

He was Rationality.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify: I obviously know that Virgil is still Anxiety, but, just like the others, I think he represents more than that. I think he still represents Anxiety, fear, doubts but also rationality and the fight or flight reflex (as stated in Accepting Anxiety). The reason the ending says he just Rationality is because I wanted a significant, impacting ending. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and Comments are greatly appreciated!


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